


Ill Met By Moonlight

by GilShalos1



Series: Without Bugles [1]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A phonecall from Hilda Pierce sends Foyle and Sam to investigate a murder in a quiet country town. The local police are convinced they have the culprit in custody - but if they're wrong, a miscarriage of justice could cost more than one life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Met By Moonlight

 

_Monday 10 March 1941_

_Something is most definitely Up, not that Mr F shows any signs of telling me exactly What, same as ever. But he spent quite a long time talking on the telephone with the door shut and then came out and told M he would be in charge for a few days and told ME to pack a bag and pick him up first thing tomorrow. Maybe there’s a terrible grisly murder in London and even Scotland Yard is baffled and they need him to solve it. That would be fun altho’ awfully sad of course for the person who got murdered. Maybe Daddy is right and this job is making me callous. I don’t want to be callous but I do want to be useful and I wouldn’t be very useful to Mr F if I started carrying on over every d.b. And anyway, I defy anyone not to be cheerful at the idea of a nice long drive, even if there IS a d.b. at the end of it. I wish he’d told me where we’re going. Still, he’ll have to tell me tomorrow!_

 

 

 

“I say, sir,” Samantha Stewart said. “Are you investigating something?”

 

“Policemen usually do investigate things,” Foyle said.

 

“Something in particular, I mean. Something in Ashford.”

 

“Ashingdon,” Foyle corrected. “You’re not taking us to Ashford, are you, Sam?”

 

“I’m taking us where the map says,” Sam said. “I just haven’t needed to look at it in a little while.”

 

“Maybe you should look at it now,” Foyle suggested dryly. “Before we get to Ashford.”

 

She grinned. “Yes, sir.”

 

Pulling the car over smoothly, she took out the map and studied it. One gloved finger indicated a spot. “We’re about here, sir. Shouldn’t be too much further to _Ashingdon_.”

 

“Glad to hear it.”

 

“So, are you?” she asked as she accelerated again, not in the least derailed. “Investigating something?”

 

“Yep.” A vain hope, that Sam would take any hint to leave a subject alone short of a direct instruction, but one Foyle could not seem to give up. If she pressed too hard, he _would_ have to be blunt: almost everything he knew about the reason for their journey was covered by the Official Secrets Act.

 

 _Phonecalls from Hilda Pierce usually are_.

 

 _There’s been a murder_ , Miss Pierce had told him, dry and matter-of-fact. Foyle suspected it would take much more than a murder to disturb her composure. _In a place called Ashingdon. They’re arrested the wrong suspect. The Chief Constable will be calling you soon to ask you to look into it._

 

“Is it a murder?” Sam asked cheerfully. “Or a spy ring?”

 

He winced at how close she was to the mark. “There are other crimes besides murder and spying, Sam.”

 

“I know, sir. There’s theft, and burglary - I always thought they were the same thing, but they’re not, are they sir? And assault, and black-marketeering, and profiteering, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there were quite a lot of other things ending with ‘eering’, and criminal damage, and trespass, and -”

 

Foyle turned a little in his seat to look at her. “Have you been reading the Criminal Code?”

 

“Yes, sir!” Sam said. “I thought I should know, to be more useful.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I _can_ be quite useful, sir. I found out about Edith’s young man for you, didn’t I?”

 

“You did.” He was careful to keep amusement out of his voice.

 

“ _And_ I arrested Keegan,” she said proudly.

 

“You didn’t exactly arrest him, Sam,” Foyle pointed out. “I did that.”

 

“Well, I knocked him down so you _could_ arrest him.”

 

“That’s quite true,” Foyle conceded mildly. “And which section of the Criminal Code did that come under?”

“Sir!” Sam said, outraged. “He was running away from a policeman! It can’t be a crime to -”

 

“Hit him over the head with a dustbin lid?”

 

“I was assisting the police! That’s a civic -” In her indignation, she took her eyes from the road long enough to look at him, and shut her mouth with a snap mid-sentence. “You’re teasing me, sir. You think I can’t tell but I always can. I’m _very_ perceptive.”

 

“Did you perceive that sign back there?” Foyle asked.

 

“What sign?”

 

“The one that said ‘Ashingdon’ and pointed down the road we _didn’t_ take.”

 

“Oh, _that_ sign. Actually, sir, I did, but this way is quicker. Have I ever gotten you lost, sir?”

 

“We-ell …”

 

“ _Really_ lost, not just, well, slightly misplaced.”

 

“I suppose,” Foyle said carefully, “depending on your definition of ‘lost’, it could be said you have never gotten me lost.”

 

“There you are then. You should have more faith in me, you know, sir. I have an excellent sense of direction, as well as being useful. And perceptive.”

 

Foyle turned again to look at his driver and, suspecting he’d regret it, asked: “Is this leading up to something, Sam?”

 

“Well, sir. Since you’re investigating something, and Sergeant Milner is back in Hastings so you don’t have an assistant, I thought you might need me to be even more useful than usual. To be your assistant, so to speak, unofficially. Just while we’re here.”

 

“Sam, you’re not on the Force.”

 

“You could deputize me!” she suggested brightly.

 

“Only if the next wrong turn takes us to Texas.”

 

“Oh.” She deflated again, although only momentarily. “But unofficially, then, sir. I’m sure I could help! I’ve been reading all the Sherlock Holmes stories about deduction and everything.”

 

“You’re not my assistant, you’re my driver, and leave Sherlock Holmes out it,” Foyle said.

 

She visibly deflated. “Yes, sir,” she said glumly.

 

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “Look,” he said after a moment, “criminals can be dangerous people. You’ve seen that. And they don’t much like policemen.”

 

“Yes, sir, but I can -”

 

“ _So_ ,” he interrupted, because sometimes with Sam that was the only way to get a word in before his train of thought was irretrievably lost, “you wouldn’t be very useful if everyone knew you were my … if they _knew_ you were useful and so on.”

 

She brightened immediately. “You mean like being ‘under cover’, sir?”

 

“Exactly. But you’ll have to be very careful not to do anything to tip anyone off. Just … carry on as usual.”

 

Sam nodded wisely. “Mum’s the word, sir! They shan’t suspect anything!”

 

“Good.”

 

The problem of Sam solved to his satisfaction, Foyle turned his thoughts back to the case ahead. Victim, local man, Michael Wilson. Suspect, visitor to the area, Jennifer Chenard. No alibi - at least, not one Miss Pierce or Miss Chenard were willing to share with the local force. _Or with me._

Foyle would have been willing to bet that Miss Chenard was ‘visiting’ a local establishment not unlike Hill House, suspicion strengthened by Miss Pierce’s insistence that he had only a few days to _sort it out_ and _get her released._

He’d taken a good look at the moon last night, waxing almost towards full.

 

“So _is_ it a murder, sir?” Sam asked.

 

He sighed to himself. “Yes. A murder.”

 

“I knew it!” Sam took the last corner. “And here we are, sir. That’s Ashingdon just ahead.”

 

“Excellent. Now, Sam …”

 

“I know, sir. Mum’s the word. You can count on me!” She navigated few streets between the edge of the town and the police station. “I can be very discreet, sir. You have no idea!”

 

Foyle opened the passenger side door and grabbed his hat. “Start now,” he suggested, and headed toward the station to find out exactly what he was up against.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Tuesday 11 March 1941_

_Here we are in A but I haven’t managed to detect anything yet. Mr F spent a lot of time talking to Sgt Palk, who seems to be in charge, and then came out and told me to get us rooms at the pub, except of course just my luck there was only one room so I suppose I’ll be sleeping in the car. I sometimes think my whole experience of the war can be summed up as having nowhere to sleep and being occasionally blown up. Anyway Mr F had that look when he came out that means someone’s going to Get It as soon as he can arrange and when I asked if he’d interviewed the suspect all he said was ‘Nup’. The murder-ee must be someone dreadfully important if they need Mr F to look into it when they already know who did it. I shall have to be specially perceptive and useful._

Foyle watched as Sam strode up the street toward him, slim and very upright in her uniform.

“Get the rooms sorted out?” he asked as soon as she was close enough that he didn’t need to shout.

 

“Oh, yes, sir, absolutely,” she said. “Have they let you interview the suspect yet?”

 

“It seems the Chief Constable called _me_ but not _them_ ,” Foyle told her. “I’ve been waiting -”

 

“Mr Foyle!” Sergeant Palk was at the front door of the station.

 

Foyle turned. “Call come through, Sergeant?”

 

“Yes, sir. Sorry for the delay, but regs is regs,” Palk said, not, in Foyle’s opinion, sounding particularly sorry.

 

“Mmm, well. Any objection if I speak to her now?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam startle a bit, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that murder might be committed by a woman. _Surely she should know better by now_.

 

“Visiting hours are well over, sir.”

 

“Ye-es, but I’m not exactly a visitor, am I?” Foyle pointed out. “As I’m sure the Chief Constable made clear to you. So _if_ you don’t mind …”

 

The reference to the Chief Constable did the trick and a moment later Sergeant Palk was leading Foyle through the small station to the cell, Sam so close on his heels she nearly trod on him.

 

“Sir,” she said in a stage whisper that could probably be heard back in Hastings, “doesn’t it seem -”

 

“ _Not_ a word, Sam,” Foyle said sharply. “Wait for me here.”

 

Her mouth opened, and then closed obediently, but her expression said as clearly as her voice could have _But, sir …_

“Absolutely not.”

 

She nodded obediently, shoulders drooping. As Foyle started to turn away, she heaved a small sigh.

 

 _Oh, for God’s sake._ He turned back. “Look,” he said. “I mean it about not one word. You won’t _say_ anything, you won’t _do_ anything, you’ll watch, and take notes, _in_ silence. Anything you have to say, say to me later, _not_ here.”

 

She beamed at him. “Absolutely!”

 

“So long as that’s clear. Come on.”

 

“Sir -” At the look he gave her she hesitated, and then finished apologetically. “I haven’t got a notebook.”

 

“Ri-ight.” He fished in his coat pocket, produced one, and put in her hand. “Now you do. Got a pencil?”

 

“Yes, sir!” She produced it and held it up as evidence.

 

He paused. “Why do you have a pencil and not a notebook?”

 

“To write on maps.” She said it as if slightly surprised he would need to ask.

 

“Of course.”

 

Down the corridor, Sergeant Palk cleared his throat meaningfully. With one last stern look at Sam, Foyle headed towards him.

 

If the station had an interview room, Sergeant Palk had obviously decided against using it. Foyle found himself standing at the door of Jennifer Chenard’s cell.

 

She was sitting on the bed, but rose when she saw him: close to his own height, compact and muscular, dark hair showing one or two threads of gray. Foyle put her age as somewhere between Sam’s and his own, closer to the latter than the former, and given the sun-darkened skin of her hands and face she’d spent much of her time out of doors, at least recently.

 

“Thank you,” he said to Palk. “We may be some time.” _If there’s nowhere for us to sit, there’s nowhere for him to sit while he waits, either._

 

“I’ll have to wait, sir, or lock you in.”

 

The cell would be close to soundproof, at least for ordinary conversational tones, with the door closed and the peephole shut. Foyle weighed the possibility of Palk ‘forgetting’ to let them out and judged that the probability of another call from the Chief Constable would prevent it. “That’ll be fine, Sergeant. Give us, mmm, half an hour?”

 

Sam jumped a bit as he locked them in. With the door shut, Foyle could just hear Palk’s heavy step receding down the corridor.

 

He turned back to the reason for their visit.

 

“Miss Chenard,” he said. “My name is Foyle. I’m a policeman. This is Miss Stewart. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?”

 

“Of course.” There was a burr of the west in her voice. “And it’s _Mrs_. Mrs Chenard.”

 

“Has someone called your husband?” Foyle asked.

 

Mrs Chenard looked at the bed, then smoothed her skirt and sat back down on it. “He’s quite dead, Mr Foyle, and has been for fifteen years.” _Definitely Cornish_ , Foyle thought.

 

“I see.”

 

She smiled slightly. “I didn’t kill him. Either.”

 

“He was a … let’s say _fisherman_ ,” Foyle said. “And French?”

 

Her gaze flicked to his, and her smile widened. “He was.”

 

Sam was scribbling furiously in his notebook, her face a study of unasked questions.

 

“And you’re here because …?”

 

“Visiting friends nearby.”

 

“Ah. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

 

“I’d gone out for a bicycle ride,” Mrs Chenard said composedly. “I often do - I’m a keen cyclist - and I usually take a different route each day. For variety. On Monday I decided to ride to the old Abbey.”

 

“How far is that?” Foyle asked.

 

“I’m not sure.” _That_ was a lie, Foyle was certain of it.

 

“Sam?” he asked. “Do you know how far it is?”

 

“Just a tick, sir,” she said, stuffed his notebook in her pocket and produced her map. “It’s … nearly twenty miles, sir.”

 

“Quite a ride,” Foyle observed. “Or did you start somewhat closer?”

 

“No, actually, I rode through the village on the way. I enjoy cycling, as I said.”

 

“Ri-ight.” He paused to let Sam stow her map and retrieve her notebook. “And then what happened?”

 

“I reached the Abbey, turned around, came back, and when I reached Ashingdon Sergeant Palk stopped me and arrested me for the murder of Michael Wilson. Which was a complete surprise to me.”

 

“Did you know Mr Wilson?”

 

“I know him to say hello to, yes.”

 

“And Sergeant Palk arrested you straight away? Didn’t ask you to come in for questioning?”

 

“No, not at all. He asked my name, and I told him, and he said ‘Jen Chenard, I am arresting you for the murder of Michael Wilson.’”

 

“Have you spoken to a lawyer?”

 

“I asked if he would call my friends, the friends I’m staying with. I knew they would send whoever should be sent.” Unspoken, _And they have sent you_.

 

“Ye-es. Well, Mrs Chenard, is there anything you can tell me about Mr Wilson? Any reason for Sergeant Palk to believe you had a reason to kill him?”

 

She paused. “We did have a run-in, not long after I arrived, weeks ago now. I was out cycling and I passed what must have been his farm. I had a slow puncture and I asked if I could have a pail of water to mend it. He - ” She glanced at Sam, and then chose her words carefully. “Seemed intent on a more friendly acquaintance than I was comfortable with.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up as she parsed that. “Men are such rotters sometimes.”

 

 _“_ Miss Stewart,” Foyle said, and she winced.

 

“Sorry, sir,” she said repentantly.

 

“You sound as if you know what it’s like,” Mrs Chenard said.

 

Sam turned an agonized gaze to Foyle and with an inward sigh, he gave her a slight nod. Looking relieved, she turned back to the prisoner. “I’ve had something of the same sort of experience myself. Just because a girl’s driving around by herself - or riding, I suppose - doesn’t mean she’s, well, _that sort_.”

 

“No,” Mrs Chenard said. “What did you do?”

 

Sam grinned. “I poked him in the - in a sensitive spot with my wrench.” She paused. “What did _you_ do?”

 

Mrs Chenard grinned back. “I poked him in a sensitive spot with my knee.”

 

“Jolly good! You must have really hated to see him in the village whenever you rode through. _I_ would have.”

 

“Yes, but I didn’t kill him. Did _you_ kill the man you had to poke with your wrench?”

 

Sam lowered her voice, and said with a glance at Foyle, “I probably shouldn’t tell you in front of a policeman.”

 

Mrs Chenard also looked at Foyle, and then beckoned to Sam. At Foyle’s nod, Sam went closer, and bent down to let the prisoner whisper in her ear. Whatever she heard made her look crestfallen. “Right. Well, thank you.” She gave Foyle a tiny headshake as she returned to her position near the door.

 

“We-ell, Mrs Chenard. Did anyone see you on your ride?” Foyle asked.

 

“No,” she said firmly. “No-one at all.”

 

“That’s not _particularly_ helpful. Didn’t pass any farmers? See any cars?”

 

“I wish I could tell you yes.” Mrs Chenard spread her hands regretfully, and something about the gesture struck Foyle as incongruous. He filed it away for closer examination later as the key in lock of the door behind them announced Palk’s return.

 

Palk escorted them back to the front of the station and seemed about to escort them out when Foyle stopped, forcing Palk to stop as well. Beside him, Sam planted her feet and looked as immovable as she could, adding the full weight of ‘vicar’s daughter’ to the slight weight of her physical form.

 

“How else can I help you, Mr Foyle?” Palk asked resignedly.

 

“We-ell, I _am_ wondering what sort of motive you think Mrs Chenard had. You didn’t mention one before.”

 

“Revenge, sir. You see, he’d - it don’t do to speak ill of the dead, I know, but Wilson had his ways, and he and Mrs Chenard had a bit of a misunderstanding a little while back.” He glanced at Sam, then back at Foyle, and winked. “If you take my meaning.”

 

“Not sure I do,” Foyle said.

 

“She wanted to have him charged, is what it came down to, but there wasn’t anything I could do without any witnesses.”

 

“I see. Having a man charged is a bit more than a ‘misunderstanding’, wouldn’t you say?” Foyle said mildly.

 

“Women can be like that if they think they’ve been slighted,” Palk said ponderously.

 

Sam’s mouth came open, color high in her cheeks, and Foyle quickly cut her off. “I see. Well, thank you, Sergeant. I’ll need to see the crime scene, of course, but better in daylight. Eight tomorrow?”

 

“If I can,” Palk said. “No knowing what might come up.”

 

“Of course. Miss Stewart, have you got your map handy?”

 

“Absolutely, sir.” She produced it.

 

“Thank you.” Foyle took it and offered it to Palk. “In case you are called away tomorrow, perhaps you could mark it for me?”

 

Palk did so, with no good grace, and gave the map back to Sam.

 

“Thank you,” Foyle said politely.

 

“Anything else? Only my wife will have dinner waiting.”

 

“No, nothing else. Thank you. We’ll get settled at the pub.” Foyle settled his hat on his head.

 

Palk seemed startled. “Both staying there?”

 

“Ye-es,” Foyle said, a bit taken aback when Palk grinned, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Food there any good?”

 

“Hasn’t killed anyone,” Palk said. “Yet.”

 

“How very reassuring. Come on, Miss Stewart. The unknown gastronomical delights of Ashingdon await.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, and followed him out.

 

Sam managed maintain her silence until they reached the pub, and more importantly the car, and the privacy it provided.

 

“Well,” he asked her once they were inside with the doors shut, “what did you think?”

 

“I don’t like that Sergeant Palk,” Sam said decidedly. “Is he going to leave her alone in the station all night? Isn’t that against some sort of regulation or something?”

 

“I’d say his house is attached to the station,” Foyle told her. “It’s not uncommon when there’s few, or one, permanent officers. This is hardly a bustling metropolis.”

 

“I see. Still, I don’t like him.” Sam folded her arms firmly. “Poor Mrs Chenard, reporting what happened and having him acting like she’d just - changed her mind after! How horrible!”

 

“Ye-es. That didn’t seem quite right, did it.”

 

“It didn’t seem at all right, sir!” Sam said indignantly.

 

“That’s not … quite what I meant,” Foyle said. “Why wouldn’t Mrs Chenard tell us that she’d reported Wilson to the police?”

 

“Maybe she was embarrassed?”

 

“Did she strike you as a woman who embarrasses easily?” Foyle asked her.

 

“Well, no,” Sam said slowly. “I suppose she didn’t.”

 

“And … if she _did_ make a police report, then why did Palk have to ask her _name_ before he arrested her?”

 

“I say, sir, I didn’t think of that!” Sam said. “But why would he tell us she had, if she hadn’t?”

 

“We-ell, it does give her a _motive_ , doesn’t it? Which would seem to be singularly absent otherwise. What did she say to you, by the way? In the cell?”

 

“Oh.” In the fading light Foyle saw Sam blush a little. “Just that I needed to become a better liar, sir.”

 

“I don’t know, your story quite convinced me, up until the point you tried to imply you’d _killed_ the man,” Foyle said.

 

“Oh, that bit was all true, sir,” Sam said cheerfully. “Even the wrench.”

 

“What?” Foyle turned in his seat to face her more fully. “Sam, why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“It wasn’t anything, sir, really. I saw him off. Me and my wrench.”

 

“What if you hadn’t had a wrench?” Foyle asked.

 

“Then I would have used my knee, sir,” she said with a smile, “like Mrs Chenard.”

 

“For God’s sake.” He touched her arm to make sure he had her full attention. “Sam, I’m a policeman, which means that sometimes I have the happy opportunity to arrest people who richly deserve it. You must _tell_ me if something like that happens again. What if the next girl he … _bothers_ doesn’t know how to use her knee?”

 

“Gosh,” Sam said. “I didn’t think of that. You think he’d do it again?”

 

“Men who behave like that don’t usually only do it once,” Foyle said.

 

“No, I suppose they don’t,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll tell you if it ever happens again. Or Sergeant Milner.”

 

“See that you do,” Foyle said.

 

She was silent a moment. “Sir? Do you think that’s true about Mr Wilson, too?”

 

“That he was a creature of habit? Yes.”

 

“Then there might be other women around here with as much or more reason to kill him as Mrs Chenard,” she pointed out.

 

“Very probably, I’d say.”

 

“How did he die?” Sam asked. “Could it have been self-defense?”

 

Foyle shook his head. “Blow to the back of the head, blunt instrument.”

 

“Oh. That doesn’t sound very much like self-defense, does it, sir?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s rather a pity. Sir, how did you know Mr Chenard was a fisherman?” she asked. “And French?”

 

“Well, _Chenard,”_ Foyle said, giving it the French pronunciation. “And she’s Cornish. What’s Cornwall famous for, Sam?”

 

Her forehead furrowed, and then she beamed. “Smuggling, sir! To France. So he wasn’t _actually_ a fisherman, was he?”

 

“Nup.”

 

“I suppose that’s why Mrs Chenard was all _je ne conaisse pas_ about everything. The smuggling.”

 

“Why d’you say that?” Foyle asked.

 

“Well, she wasn’t very helpful, was she?” Sam said. “Given she’s the one being charged.”

 

“No, why did you say it _like that_? In French?”

 

“I don’t know, sir. I just - did.”

 

Foyle thought back to Mrs Chenard’s gesture of regret, fingers spread wide, shoulders lifting, a matching twist of the mouth. “Because _she’s_ French,” he suggested.

 

“I thought you said she was _Cornish_ ,” Sam protested.

 

“She might not be the first member of her family to marry a business partner?”

 

“Golly, sir. That sounds so _unromantic_ when you put it like that.”

 

“We-ell, smuggling is pretty unromantic when you get past the poetry,” Foyle pointed out. “People get hurt, people get killed, everyone else has to pay higher taxes because of the lost government revenue, it’s not _quite_ the way Kipling led you to believe.”

 

“No, sir,” Sam said, chastened. “Do you think Mrs Chenard really rode all that way on her bicycle? And didn’t see anyone at all?”

 

“No I don’t,” Foyle said. “But I don’t think she’s going to tell us who she _did_ see and I don’t think it would be very healthy for either of us to ask.”

 

Sam looked puzzled. “Why not, sir?”

 

“Because, Sam,” Foyle said, “ _Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie_.”

 

“I don’t understand, sir,” Sam said.

 

“I’ll lend you the book. Are you hungry?”

 

“Rather!” Sam said enthusiastically.

 

Foyle opened the passenger door and swung himself out. “Come on, then.”

 

As usual, he didn’t need to tell her twice.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Later Tuesday 11 March 1941_

 

_When Mr F found out I was going to have to sleep in the car he said something about ‘that explaining it’ and used a few words Daddy really wouldn’t approve of and marched me back to the station to find Sgt P. I tried to tell him - Mr F - that I really didn’t mind and I’ve slept in far worse places since the war started and he gave me one of his looks and said something about if I didn’t care about MY reputation I could at least consider HIS and then I realized why Sgt P WINKED at him like that in the station when Mr F said we were both staying at the pub. I suppose Mr F doesn’t want people thinking he’s fraternizing altho’ it isn’t really since I’m not technically police. But anyway, he explained to Sgt P that I needed somewhere to stay and Sgt P said his oldest daughter was away and I could have her bed which at least sounded more comfortable than the car but it turns out that his two daughters share a room and Lucy, that’s the other daughter, SNORES. I think she has adenoids or something, it’s absolutely EPIC. Oh well, it’ll be time to get up soon and the moon is almost full so it’s bright enough to write this. In the morning Mr F and I will go and detect at the murder scene and I’m sure he’ll prove Mrs C didn’t do it. Not that I wouldn’t be surprised if she DID kill someone but I think she’d have a better reason and too many things don’t add up including the things Mr F says I shouldn’t ask questions about so I won’t. That doesn’t mean I can’t wonder about them but it probably means I shouldn’t write them down in case the Germans DO invade and find this. In the rubble of my bombed-out house next to my cold corpse, probably. But that’s too morbid and I won’t think about it._

Sam was waiting by the car when Foyle emerged from the pub after a largely unsatisfying breakfast. “Morning, Sam. Sleep well?”

 

“Absolutely, sir,” she said firmly, in exactly the tone of voice she always used when lying. Foyle raised an eyebrow.

 

“Bed uncomfortable?”

 

“Oh, not too bad, sir,” she said, opening the car door as he went around to the passenger side, “although the sheets were a bit grubby which I didn’t expect, given how clean the rest of the house is. No, the bed was perfectly fine. It’s the younger Miss Palk. She _snores_.”

 

“Sam, you could sleep through an air raid.” Foyle got in, and then winced as he realized that was more than a casual joke where she was concerned.

 

“Jerry can’t compare to Lucy, sir, believe me,” Sam said as she steered the car out of the pub’s yard. “It’s like a natural phenomenon. They could exhibit her, when she was asleep of course, as a wonder of the world.”

 

“Two bob admission?”

 

“Worth at least _five_ , I’d say.” Sam peered through the windscreen and then looked down at the map in her lap. “I’d certainly pay five bob to shut her up for a few hours.”

 

“Yes, well, you couldn’t exactly have slept in the car. You do see that, don’t you?”

 

“Absolutely, sir,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t thinking about how it might look for you.”

 

“Don’t want the AC to get it into his head that you need to be transfered for the good of the service, do we?”

 

“Golly, sir, would he do that?”

 

“He might. And you know how terribly Sergeant Brooke treats the car.”

 

“Rather!” She drew the car to a stop. “Here we are, sir, if he marked the right spot.”

 

“Mmm, I don’t think he’d risk trying to mislead us. There must be _someone_ else in Ashingdon who knows where the body was found.” Foyle got out, and waited until Sam had done the same, studying the field before them. “The doctor he went to fetch and who helped him carry it out, for one. He might not know to tell the same lie or even to lie at all.”

 

“Yes,” Sam said. “Sir, do you think Sergeant Palk is involved in this somehow?”

 

“It seems to be a rather unavoidable conclusion, doesn’t it?” Foyle began to pick his way towards the edge of the field where a small stream meandered through a cluster of small trees.

 

Sam followed him. “He did seem rather unhelpful.”

 

“Yes. Now the body was apparently found _there_ \- watch your feet, Sam, stay off any footprints.”

 

“Footprints aren’t the _only_ thing to avoid stepping in here, sir,” Sam said ruefully, surveying the sole of one shoe and then rubbing it on the grass. “Was he killed here?”

 

“Doesn’t look like it,” Foyle said, studying the ground. “There’s only two types of footprints here - Palk said he and the doctor carried the body out, and here, you can see them coming, and going.”

 

“But no footprints for Mr Wilson,” Sam said. “ _I_ can’t see any, anyway.”

 

“Neither can I,” Foyle said.

 

“So someone carried him here after he was dead?” Sam asked. “Then _his_ footprints should be here, too.”

 

“Ye-es,” Foyle said. “See them?”

 

Sam cast around, slipping a little in the soft mud by the stream. “I’m afraid I can’t, sir. Just the ones that must be the doctor’s, and Sergeant Palk’s.”

 

“Rather more of one than the other,” Foyle observed.

 

“Those must be the sergeant’s,” Sam said. “When he found the body, and went back to get the doctor.”

 

“Well that’s _one_ explanation,” Foyle said. He turned and looked back toward the road, now out of sight due to the trees and the slope. “How do you think he knew it was here, though?”

 

“Saw it from the -” Sam followed his gaze, and looked puzzled. “Oh, he couldn’t have, could he? No-one could have. Whoever saw the body must have come quite close.”

 

“And _levitated_ ,” Foyle said. “And so must whoever _put_ the body here. Since _they_ didn’t leave any footprints either.”

 

“Then how did he know?” Sam asked.

 

Foyle started up the bank, then stopped to offer Sam his hand up the steepest bit. “What d’you make of it?”

 

“I confess I’m quite flummoxed, sir.” She caught her balance, and released his hand.

 

“We-ell. Apply your mind to it and I’m sure it will come to you.” He started back to the car.

 

“Sir!” Sam said indignantly, following. “You know, don’t you, sir? I say, that’s not very fair, not telling me.”

 

Foyle stopped. “You’re the one who reads Sherlock Holmes.”

 

She looked at him a moment, brow furrowed, and then her eyes widened. “Sir! I think I know! Wait a moment, I just need to check something.”

 

Bolting back to the stream, she slid down the bank a little way from the footprints and trotted over to peer at them, kneeling down to get a closer look. Foyle watched her, smiling at her intent expression, a smile he quickly hid when she looked up. “Sir! I know who did it!” she called.

 

“Well don’t tell the whole countryside, Sam,” he said quickly.

 

“Right,” she said, getting to her feet and starting up the hill again. “Loose lips sink -”

 

The last word of the phrase disappeared in a gasp as her feet slipped from under her and she went full length on the hillside.

 

“Sam!” Foyle began to make his way down to her, taking more care than she had. “Sam? You all right?”

 

“Tickety-boo, sir!” she said cheerfully, and sat up, showing a face and uniform liberally smeared with mud. “Although -” she looked down at herself. “I think this is going to take rather more than a handkerchief.”

 

Foyle held out his hand to help her up. “Looks like it might take a firehose.”

 

Sam reached for his hand, then hesitated. “Don’t help me, sir, I’ll get this all over you.”

 

He grasped her fingers regardless. “It’s only mud. Up you come.”

 

“You wouldn’t say that,” Sam said as he hauled her up, “if you’d had as much experience with it as _I_ have. Holidays with Uncle Aubrey in Leavenham could get awfully _rural_.”

 

“Mmm,” Foyle said. “I have had _some_ experience with mud.”

 

Sam put her free hand over her mouth. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. I forgot you were in the war, the other war.”

 

“Quite alright,” Foyle assured her.

 

“It just seems like it was so terribly long ago,” Sam said, brushing ineffectually at her skirt as Foyle released her hand.

 

“Not _that_ long ago,” Foyle protested mildly, a little stung. “Don’t brush it, won’t help. Let it dry.”

 

“Oh, no, sir,” Sam said, ignoring his advice. “Practically yesterday, really. It’s just - this one seems to have been going forever, and everything _before_ is ever so long ago. Even school! Oh, this is hopeless, sir. I’ll get the car absolutely filthy. I’d better walk back and change and come and get you. It’s not much more than a mile.”

 

“Why don’t we both walk back,” Foyle suggested. “There are a few things I want to take a look at back in Ashingdon.”

 

“I’m awfully sorry,” Sam said as they reached the road and turned back the way they’d come. “I should think the first rule of driver-ing is not to make your passenger walk.”

 

“It’s a nice day,” Foyle said. “If a bit cool. And you did just solve a murder.”

 

Sam brightened. “I did, didn’t I!”

 

“Are you going to tell me who did it?”

 

She gave him a sideways look as they trudged along. “What if I’m wrong?”

 

“I promise I won’t arrest anyone unless I agree with you.” He considered that. “Although I can’t promise I won’t arrest anyone unless _you_ agree with _me_.”

 

“And you won’t laugh at me? Because it is a Sherlock Holmes thing, that’s what made me think of it.”

 

“I won’t laugh at you,” Foyle assured her.

 

“Well.” Sam took a deep breath, visibly organizing her thoughts. “The doctor’s footprints are deeper in one set than in the other. That means he was carrying something heavy.”

 

“Mr Wilson,” Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir, or half of him. I mean, not half the body, unless it was dismembered and you didn’t mention it, but I think you _would_ have mentioned it because it’s rather startling, isn’t it?”

 

Foyle turned to study the hedgerow to hide his smile. “I should think I would mention it, at least in passing.”

 

“The other footprints,” Sam went on, “the ones there are such a lot of, the ones that must be Sergeant Palk’s, they have some shallower ones and some deeper ones, too. But there are some that are very deep, deeper than any of the doctor’s, and not just one or two.”

 

“So?” Foyle prompted.

 

“So he was carrying something _even heavier_ than half of Mr Wilson!” she finished triumphantly.

 

“Such as …?”

 

“Well I rather thought it might have been the whole of Mr Wilson, sir,” Sam said.

 

“Did you?” Foyle glanced at her, and saw her square her shoulders and set her chin. “Well done, Sam, I rather thought the same thing.”

 

She beamed, and then sobered. “That’s not very good, is it. A policeman murdering someone.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle pointed out, “so far he’s moved a body, which, you’re right, is suspicious, and not very good at all. But I wouldn’t say he’s certainly a murderer, not yet.”

 

“It explains why he arrested Mrs Chenard so quickly, doesn’t it, though?” Sam said. “He needed a scapegoat and she came along at just the right moment.”

 

“It certainly explains that, yes.” Foyle walked in silent thought for a moment. “Why d’you think he did it?”

 

“I can’t think, sir.” Sam contemplated that. “I don’t really know very much about Mr Palk.”

 

Foyle noted she’d dropped the rank now Palk was suspected of murder. “We-ell, we know a _little_ bit about him,” he said. “We know that he knew what sort of a man Wilson was.”

 

“That’s true.”

 

“And what else?” Foyle asked. “Find anything out last night?”

 

Sam paused for a second, and then hurried to catch him up. “Is that why you wanted me to stay with them? The Palks? To detect something?”

 

“N-no, but it is a happy coincidence, don’t you think?”

 

“I’ll say! Well, I didn’t see much of him, or Mrs Palk. It was late-ish when I got there. So all I really know is that they have two daughters, one of whom is away at the moment, and she’s a very good housekeeper.”

 

“Except for the sheets,” Foyle reminded her. “When did the older girl leave, did they say?”

 

“No, sir. But it must have been since laundry day otherwise I can’t see how the sheets got dirty.”

 

Foyle bit his lip and considered how to ask the next question. “Mmm. Dirty how, exactly? Stained, or …?”

 

“Dirty with _dirt_ , sir, rather as if someone had walked up and down the bed with boots on and then remade it.” She frowned, and then blushed quite red. “Not like … she’d, um. With someone.”

 

Foyle realized he was blushing as well. “I see. Sorry to have to ask you.”

 

“Quite alright, sir,” Sam assured him, still crimson. “Evidence is evidence.”

 

“Quite.”

 

They walked in silence for a few moments and then Foyle heard Sam draw breath. _Couldn’t last_ , he thought, more amused than resigned. “That book you said you’d lend me. About lying. And questions.”

 

“We-ell, more of a poem in a book than a book. About smugglers.” He dredged memory. “If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet, don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street. Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie, watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by.”

 

“That’s rather good, sir. Did you write it?”

 

He was startled into a laugh. “Me? Good god, no. That’s Rudyard Kipling. What on earth made you think _I’d_ written it?”

 

“Well, Andrew writes poetry,” Sam said. “I thought it might run in the family.”

 

“Andrew writes poetry. I fish,” Foyle said with some asperity. “Neither seems to run in the family as far as _I_ can see.”

 

“At least _one_ of you can put food on the table,” Sam said.

 

“Andrew’s neither put food on the table _nor_ cleared it in living memory,” Foyle said, and Sam laughed. “You’re a much better cook and _far_ tidier.”

 

“Vicar’s daughter, sir,” Sam said. “Look, there’s Ashingdon! I’d better go and clean up. Do you want me to come and meet you or go and get the car straight away?”

 

“I want to have a word with Mrs Palk,” Foyle said. “If you’re ready by the time I’ve done that, we might get a spot of lunch.”

 

“I’ll hurry, sir,” Sam said devoutly.  

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

_Wednesday 12 March 1941_

_Haven’t long before water heats but wanted to note the odd thing Mrs P said when I came in - must remember tell Mr F! Men, watch out, guard down._

Foyle paced out the narrow area of the Palk’s yard not taken up with lines of washing, waiting for her to re-emerge from the house after bustling Sam inside. _At least that answers the question of how long her eldest might have been gone. A week, from one wash day to the next._

 

 _Not very helpful._ If his suspicions were true, it was somewhat shorter than that.

 

The line nearest him flapped in the breeze and began to dip towards the ground and Foyle caught it reflexively. He could still remember Rosalind’s face when he and Andrew had brought her laundry crashing down during a spot of batting practice in the back yard. Looking around, he identified the problem: one of the poles supporting the line was shorter and less sturdy than the others, obviously a jury-rigged substitute for a missing item. Carefully, he anchored it more securely. _There._

No sign of movement inside the house. Foyle went to the open door and reached in to rap on it. “Mrs Palk?” He peered into the kitchen. “Mrs Palk, are you there?”

 

Sam positively bounced through the door that led to the rest of the house, in a clean skirt and blouse but without her jacket, hair damp and curling fiercely. “I think she might have gone out, sir, while I was changing. The house _feels_ empty, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Ye-es. It does, doesn’t it.”

 

“I must tell you, sir, she -”

 

“Not here,” Foyle said quickly. “Might _not_ be empty, after all.”

 

“Right, sir,” Sam said, momentarily abashed. She followed him back out through the yard, and along the street until they were a fair distance from any possible eaves-droppers. When he stopped, she leaned close and lowered her voice. “When I went in, I mean, when Mrs Palk hurried me in to clean up, she said something rather odd, sir.”

 

“What’d she say?”

 

“She said -” Sam closed her eyes as if that would aid her memory. “I shouldn’t let you make me go places alone with you, men needed to be watched out for and now I knew what could happen if I let my guard down.”

 

Foyle raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what she meant by that?”

 

Sam opened her eyes and said awkwardly, “I rather guessed she thought that you - that something might have happened, sir. Something along the lines of Mr Wilson. I mean, Mr Wilson before someone hit him on the head.” She hurried on. “I told her _straight away_ that I fell down the bank in the field and nothing at all, at all _untoward_ had happened or would _ever_ happen and she had _completely_ the wrong idea, and -” She ran out of breath, gasped, and finished a bit miserably, “I’m not sure she believed me, sir. I’m really most awfully sorry.”

 

“Not at all your fault,” Foyle said. “Not in the slightest.”

 

“But what if she says something to Mr Palk and he says something to the AC and -”

 

“Sam, it’s all right,” he said. “Even if the AC gets involved, which he _won’t._ At least five people saw us walking back, five people who saw you covered in mud and me _not_. If what Mrs Palk implied _had_ happened, how would I have managed that, hmm?”

 

“Right, sir,” Sam said, and heaved a shaky sigh of relief. “Of course. I wasn’t thinking it through. It was just such a nasty thing to think!”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said. “I think Mrs Palk’s mind is running along certain tracks at the moment. How old did you say her daughters are?”

 

“Um, Lucy, that’s the snorer, is seventeen, and Cecelia is nineteen.”

 

“Right. Did you notice anything about the yard?” he asked.

 

“No, sir, just that it’s her wash day, although she hasn’t done all of it.”

 

“She hasn’t?” Foyle asked.

 

“No, sir, four people make _much_ more washing than that in a week.”

 

“So-o … maybe it isn’t the first time this week she’s done it?”

 

“I’d say so,” Sam said. “I didn’t notice anything else, I’m afraid.”

 

“You didn’t have much chance to look around,” Foyle said. “ _I_ did. One of the poles holding up Mrs Palk’s lines is missing.”

 

Sam frowned. “I don’t understand.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said, “Mrs Palk is very quick at jumping to certain _conclusions_ , our murder victim is the sort of man who’d _justify_ those conclusions, she made up your bed with sheets that had dirt on them despite being a very good _housekeeper_ , her _husband_ has put his whole career and his freedom at risk covering up the _crime_ , her nineteen year old _daughter_ is absent, one of her laundry props is _missing_ and what happens when you yank a prop out from underneath a line of laundry?”

 

“It falls in the dirt!” Sam exclaimed. “Sir, that’s brilliant. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have done better.” At the expression on his face, she quickly added “Sorry, sir. Which one do you think did it? Mrs Palk?”

 

“I’d guess Cecelia, since she’s the one they’ve sent _away_ , probably to Ireland if they can _manage_ it, but that’s fairly irrelevant to the outcome,” Foyle said. “I’m sure that Palk and Mrs Chenard aren’t the only ones in the _area_ who know what Wilson was like, any decent lawyer will make sure that the jury knows too, and that whoever swung the pole was probably doing it to defend someone else, possibly Lucy.”

 

“Is that what happened?” Sam asked.

 

“I doubt it. Palk may be a disgrace to the force but I’m sure he knows enough of the law to know he wouldn’t need to take such … _drastic_ steps unless there wasn’t any immediate danger to anyone when the blow was struck.”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

“We-ell, I’m going to arrest soon-to-be-former Sergeant Palk, for a start.”

 

“And release Mrs Chenard?”

 

“Doesn’t seem to be any evidence to … _hold_ her on.” Foyle pointed out.

 

“Jolly good, sir,” Sam said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Wednesday 12 March 1941 (again)_

 

_Mr F can be absolutely TERRIFYING when he wants to be without even raising his voice. He just gets all clipped and contemptuous. Mr P looked like he wanted to crawl under the table until it was all over like it was an air-raid - which would have probably hurt less, all said and done. He - Mr F - told Mr P he knew all about it and told him what IT was and Mr P just sort of crumbled in on himself and looked like he was going to start crying and kept saying he couldn’t let them hang his daughter, what sort of father could let that happen and I could really have sort have seen his point if it wasn’t for the fact that if it wasn’t for Mr F Mrs C might have been hanged - is it hanged or hung? I must ask M - and while I don’t think it would be terribly fair to hang C for what she did after what Mr W did to her it would be most definitely UNFAIR to hang Mrs C for it and Mr F DID say that C might very well get off with a good lawyer. Then he told me to take Mr P’s keys and let Mrs C out and Mr P went into the cell and I locked it after him JUST LIKE A PROPER POLICEMAN I felt like I might absolutely burst! Mr F called someone and explained what happened and asked them to send someone to take over but they won’t be here until later so Mr F is staying at the station overnight to keep an eye on Mr P and I can’t go back to Mrs P OBVIOUSLY that would be just too awful especially sleeping in C’s bed and L SNORING or else NOT snoring and awake and hating me so Mr F said to tell them at the pub what had happened and to have his room so after I went to get the car here I am. Which is a bit odd even though Mr F is VERY tidy and packed his case this morning so it’s not like there’s his clothes and THINGS around. Mrs C called someone too to have them come and collect her so I suppose she’ll be gone in the morning which is a bit of a shame she seemed quite nice underneath all the being-suspected-of-murder and I did want to ask her about Cornwall and the thing Mr F said about Kipler. And about the other things but of course I wouldn’t. She must be awfully brave. I wonder if I could be that brave and I’m afraid I don’t think I could altho’ I have been bombed TWICE and nearly blown up another time but I would have avoided it if I could not like Mr F who came charging in when I was stuck in that office even though he already KNEW there was a bomb in there. The moon is full tonight or nearly and looking at it makes my stomach hurt. Lots of things about this war have been quite jolly but there are other bits that are just HORRID and far worse than bombs. I don’t see how I’m going to sleep a WINK tonight._

 

 

The night was very still. Through the window of the office that had recently been Palk’s, Foyle could see the street bathed in moonlight, almost as bright as day but washed to silver and gray.

 

It was quiet enough for him to hear the soft _tap - taptap - tap_ of Mrs Chenard’s footsteps as she moved around, her restless almost-pacing the only sign he could detect of the nerves she must feel.

 

Soon there would be the sound of a car in the street. Mrs Chenard would go out to it, and get in, and be gone to - to wherever it was that Miss Pierce believed it was so important she go.

 

And, Foyle knew, a few weeks later she would most likely be dead.

 

A familiar and unwelcome feeling and one he had thought left forever behind in 1918.

  

“Mr Foyle?” Mrs Chenard stood in the doorway, a mug in each hand. “I’ve raided the good sergeant’s tea supply.” She had repaired most of the ravages wrought by several nights in the cell, and he could tell even in the dim glow of the office’s one remaining light-globe that the belongings Palk had confiscated and he had returned must have included lipstick and a comb. Apart from the creases in her clothes, she might have been any well-to-do farmer’s wife circulating at a Women’s Institute tea.

 

“Ah, very good.” He half stood in reflexive courtesy as she brought the mugs to the desk and set one down in front of him. “Please - sit down.”

 

“Thank you.” She settled herself in the chair opposite him as he sank back down, wrapping both hands around the steaming mug. “No milk or sugar, I’m afraid.” A smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “There _is_ a war on.”

 

“Yes.” He lifted his own mug. “Are you, ah … your _friends_?”

 

“They should be here soon.” She sipped her tea. “Circumstances have made it a rather longer journey for them than it might otherwise be.”

 

“I … see.” _Directly to the airfield, then_. _Where-ever that is_. “We-ell, good luck for all your travels, Mrs Chenard.”

 

“Mud in your eye,” she said gravely, raising her mug as if to toast.

 

He thought of Sam, and smiled, returning the gesture. “Indeed.”

 

“I was hoping you might do me a favor, Mr Foyle,” she said. “ _Another_ favor, that is.”

 

“If I can,” he said.

 

Mrs Chenard set her mug down on the desk, and took a small bundle of envelopes from the inside pocket of her jacket. “I have children. Two boys and a girl.” At the look on his face, she added: “Quite grown up, Mr Foyle. They are serving their country.”

 

He heard her unspoken addition _As am I._ “You must be very proud.”

 

“Aren’t all parents proud of their children?”

 

Foyle thought back to some of the families he’d seen over the course of his career. “No-ot _all.”_

 

She rested her wrist on the edge of the desk, envelopes - he could see now there were three of them - held so that he could take them, if he chose to reach. “Are you a father?”

 

“I have a son. A pilot. And I _am_ proud of him.” He made no move toward her. “ _And_ worried sick.”

 

“We are not allowed to write,” she said. “To tell them - _anyone_ \- anything.”

 

His eyebrows rose. “And … you would like me to post those for you?”

 

“When the war ends,” she reassured him. “My … friends … have similar letters. They promise they will be sent, when the time is right. But … I have the feeling that your promise might be worth rather more.”

 

“It would be hard to see how it could be worth _less_ ,” Foyle said, more tersely than he’d meant to, and then: “I’m sorry. That was … I’m not in a position to judge.”

 

She smiled again. “Perhaps neither of us is. But nonetheless … I have left them unsealed. You can read them and assure yourself there is nothing there that would - if the worst happens, and they should be read.”

 

 _Read by an occupying army_ , Foyle thought. He held out his hand, and she put the envelopes in them. Deliberately, he turned them face down, so the names were hidden. “I will … destroy them. If it becomes necessary. If I can, in those … _circumstances._ ”

 

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Do you write to your son?”

 

“Rather more often than he writes to _me_ ,” Foyle said with asperity, and she laughed.

 

“Boys are like that. I’m sure _you_ were.”

 

“I’m sure I was, doesn’t make it excusable though.” He tucked the letters safely inside his jacket. “I have far more sympathy for my parents these days than I ever thought possible.”

 

“And your wife?” she asked.

 

“She died,” he said simply.

 

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “This war.”

 

“No, it was … some time ago.” He finished his tea. “I’m sorry about your husband. Your children must have been quite young.”

 

“Yes.” She shrugged a little, an attenuated version of the Gallic gesture he had seen before. “Easier for them, perhaps. Only Tom - my eldest - can really remember him.”

 

“Were you living in Cornwall then?”

 

“I have lived in Cornwall for much of my life.” She set her mug down, and folded her hands in her lap, completely at ease. “Must we get hung up on the details?”

 

“Not at all,” Foyle assured her. “I understand there may be things you are … reluctant to discuss.” He smiled. “Although since I have no means of checking your story, nor any reason to, you could tell me anything you like, you know.”

 

“Yes,” she agreed, and was silent.

 

When it was evident she had not intention of saying more, Foyle inclined his head. “I won’t ask any more questions.”

 

“Thank you.” She stood, and reached across the desk to pick up his empty mug. “I find I don’t much want to tell you any more lies.”

 

“Then I shall - _watch the wall_.” She smiled in recognition of the quote. As she moved toward the door he stood. “Mrs Chenard -”

 

She turned back. “I _was_ christened Jennifer. Jen.”

 

He paused. “Christopher.”

 

“Christopher _Foyle_ ,” she said, the emphasis drawing the distinction between them, between what he could say and what he could never know, a distance far greater than the few paces between them. A sound in the street drew her attention before he could find out what she might have been going to say next, and she glanced out the window. “Here comes your young Miss Stewart, Mr Foyle.”

 

“She’s rather her _own_ Miss Stewart, I’ve found,” he said mildly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Wednesday 12 March 1941 (later again)_

 

_Lying here with my eyes wide open is a COMPLETE waste of time._

 

 

 

“It’s good tea, sir,” Sam said appreciatively, having appropriated Foyle’s chair. “Mr Palk has _some_ redeeming qualities.”

 

Foyle made a noncommittal noise, not turning from his study of the street. “You should really be asleep, you know.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said simply. “Not with Mrs Chenard leaving tonight.”

 

The slight stress she put on the word ‘leaving’ got Foyle’s attention. “Not sure what you think you _know_ , Sam, but -”

 

“I know that I might quite like Mrs Chenard if I met her properly,” Sam said. “We might even be friends! And I know it’s a full moon.”

 

“How do you know about the full moon?” Foyle asked sharply.

 

Her expression was so guileless she might just as well have been waving a flag with the word _Lying_ on it. “I looked out the window, sir, it’s quite obvious even to me.”

 

He frowned at her. “That’s not what I mean, Sam, and you know it. How do you know?”

 

“Actually, Andrew told me.” Seeing his face, she hurried on, “Not like _that_. He never said anything about - about anything that I couldn’t hear on the wireless. But I remember _one_ time, he was talking about you need lights to land at night, but not in the day, like driving? And _I_ said that it was dreadfully difficult to drive in the blackout without proper headlamps and the only time I didn’t mind it was when the moon was full because it was bright as daytime almost and _he_ said that if fuel rationing got much tighter they might have to stop using lights on full moon nights.”

 

“I see,” Foyle said. “Don’t ever repeat that to anyone, will you?”

 

“No sir, I never have, not anything about Andrew, in case it was something important even though I didn’t know and it might be a clue to where he was or what he was doing. Which _I_ don’t even know. But still.” She turned to look at him. “I _can_ be very discreet, sir. I know I talk a great deal sometimes but I never say anything I really shouldn’t, that is, if you don’t count the usual foot-in-mouth moments.”

 

He touched her shoulder. “I know. They did offer me a different driver for this. I turned them down.”

 

“ _They_?” Sam asked.

 

“Ask no questions, Sam.”

 

“Right,” she said slowly. “ _They_. Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, sir. I won’t let you down!”

 

“Never thought you could,” Foyle said.

 

“Is he all right, do you think, sir?” she asked after a moment. “Andrew? I - haven’t heard, Recently.”

 

“I haven’t heard otherwise,” Foyle said.

 

“That’s good, sir, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Foyle said. “That’s good.” He looked out at the street again. “What made you think of it ? The moon?”

 

“All the cycling, sir,” Sam said promptly. “If someone said to _me_ , well, Sam, from next month you’re going to be a - a dispatch rider, or something, and you’ll need to be able to ride a bicycle simply miles and miles and miles, that’s _what_ I’d do, go out every day and do a bit more each time and work up to it so it wouldn’t be so bad at the beginning.” She finished her tea. “And being French, sir. Or partly, anyway. It was rather obvious.”

 

“I shall have to let them know how easily they can be seen through,” Foyle said, not sure whether to be amused or appalled.

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry, sir,” Sam said blithely. “Not everyone is as perceptive as I am.”

 

Amusement won. “A good thing, too. But Sam …”

 

“Mum’s the word, sir. Absolutely. But _you_ don’t count.”

 

“We-ell, I … _should_ count, don’t you think?”

 

“If you’re a Jerry spy, sir, we’re all sunk already and it doesn’t matter.” She put her mug down decisively. “If those friends of Mrs Chenard are coming they’d better shake a leg. It’s getting - ”

 

The telephone rang on Palk’s desk.

 

Before Foyle could move, Sam had picked up the receiver. “Ashingdon Police Station, may I help you?” She listened for a moment. “One moment, please.” One hand over the receiver, she said: “It’s for Mrs Chenard, sir.”

 

“I’ll get her,” Foyle said.

 

He opened the door to the office and saw that Jen Chenard had seated herself on the very furthest away of the benches provided for members of the public to wait, a wordless politeness indicating her respect for his and Sam’s privacy. “Mrs Chenard. Jen. There’s a call.”

 

She slipped her shoes back on and stood, crossing the room with quick steps. Foyle stood aside to let her pass and Sam held out the receiver. Foyle caught Sam’s eye and jerked his head toward the door and after a second’s incomprehension her eyes widened and she leapt to her feet, hurrying from the room.

 

Foyle shut the door behind her and steered her away from it.

 

“Gosh,” Sam said in rather a loud whisper. “This is very -”

 

“Much none of our business, yes,” Foyle said.

 

She nodded firmly. “Right, sir. Understood.” She looked out the open door at the moonlit street and shivered suddenly.

 

“Cold?” Foyle asked. “Oh, your jacket -”

 

“Still covered with mud, yes.”

 

Foyle half turned. “My coat is …”

 

“I’m quite alright, sir. Not really cold.” She folded her arms tightly. “Someone walked over my grave, I expect.”

 

He winced a little. “Let’s … _bury_ that expression, hmm? At least for the duration.”

 

“It can’t go on much longer, can it?” Sam asked. “Not that I want to go back to Lyminster. Or stop working for _you_. But I would in a shot if it would persuade Hitler to surrender.”

 

Foyle had a sudden image of her, very upright in her uniform, making the offer to the German High Command. It should have been comical, but he felt no desire to laugh. “However long it goes on,” he said, “we’ll get through it. It might be hard to see exactly … _how_ at times, but you have to keep believing that we _will_.”

 

Sam gave him a grateful smile. “Yes, sir. We will get through it.”

 

Jen Chenard’s footsteps behind them made them both turn.

 

“How are your friends?” Foyle asked.

 

She spread her hands. “They have car trouble. It seems your efforts will be for nothing, Mr Foyle.”

 

“ _I_ have a car,” Sam said, glanced at Foyle and corrected herself. “I mean, Mr Foyle does. But I’m his driver. _I_ could drive you to - wherever, to meet - whoever.”

 

Foyle shook his head. “Won’t work, Sam. You don’t have the right papers if you meet any road blocks and I very much doubt that Mrs Chenard was cycling round the countryside with appropriate passes in her pocket.”

 

“No,” Jen said. “Nor can I drive at night, not quickly enough, and safely.”

 

“They’d let _you_ through, though, sir,” Sam said. “Because of your police ID thing. I could stay and watch Mr Palk and - oh, but that wouldn’t work because I’d need to drive - bother, it’s like that fox-goose-dog riddle, isn’t it?”

 

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “Wait here,” he said abruptly, and headed to Palk’s cell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

_Thursday 13 March 1941 if only just_

_This is just dreadf-_

Foyle turned the key and pulled open the door. “Sergeant.”

 

Palk regarded him truculently. “They’ve come, then.”

 

“No,” Foyle said precisely. “No-one’s here.”

 

“Then what do you want?”

 

“We-ell, I was … _hoping_ that despite what you’ve done, there’s still some part of you that understands duty, Sergeant,” Foyle said. “Y’see I can’t exactly leave you locked up without supervision, there might be a fire, or an air-raid, and I’d be responsible if something _happened_ to you under those circumstances. But I’m rather urgently needed elsewhere, for reasons that don’t concern you and in fact barely concern _me_ , and so I rather hope I can have your word that you’ll sit quietly here until I, or somebody else, comes tomorrow morning.”

 

“You’re going to leave me here?” Palk said, indignant. “With the door closed?”

 

“I’m going to leave you here with the door _open_ ,” Foyle said. “And I’d like your word you won’t walk through it.”

 

“And why would I promise that?” Palk asked.

 

“Because if you don’t, I’ll have to stay,” Foyle said. “You’ve done something very foolish, at the very least, and you’ll have to pay the price for it, but the way things stand now a number of other people are going to pay a rather higher price, very brave people who are putting their lives at risk to keep England free. I know you love your family, Sergeant Palk, enough to break the law for them. Do you love your country enough to obey it?”

 

Palk looked at him for a long moment in silence, and then rose to his feet. He straightened his uniform tunic with a sharp jerk, came to attention, and saluted. “I won’t stir from this room, sir, unless Jerry comes calling or the place burns down. You have my word.”

 

“Thank you,” Foyle said quietly.

 

He left the door open, pocketed the key, and strode back to the front of the station. “Sam, get - dammit to hell, where’s she gone?”

 

“To get the car,” Jen Chenard said calmly.

 

“Ri-ight, well,” Foyle said. “Let’s meet her on the way, shall we?”

 

The dimmed headlamps of the car came toward them up the street before they had gone more than twenty yards. Jen opened the rear door before Foyle could ask if she preferred the front, and so he got in beside Sam.

 

“Very confident of you,” he said to her as he closed the door.

 

“Well you had that _look,_ sir.” She turned to look at Jen and asked cheerfully, “Where to?”

“North Bedfordshire,” Jen said. “And we’re in rather a hurry.”

 

“You sure you’re up for this, Sam?” Foyle asked.

 

“You bet!” She trod hard on the accelerator and the car leapt forward. “Don’t worry!” she added, turning again to address Jen. “We’ll get you there in time!”

 

“The road,” Foyle reminded her, and she snapped her attention forward again.

 

“Don’t worry sir, I never crash!”

 

“Apart from last month,” Foyle said dryly. He leaned against the door, arm along the back of the seat, so he could see both Sam and Jen Chenard, as much as he could see anything in the dim car.

 

“That was hardly _my_ fault,” Sam protested. “It really wasn’t, Mrs Chenard, someone sabotaged the car.”

 

Jen laughed quietly. “I believe you,” she said.

 

For some time, they drove in silence, Sam navigating the country roads at a speed slightly faster than Foyle privately believed safe. Roadblocks stopped them twice, and each time Foyle’s rank was sufficient to persuade the Home Guard to let them through.

 

The countryside they passed was drained of color, as if they were passing through the lands of the dead, and Foyle was visited by the irrational conviction that Jen, like Eurydice , would only be safe as long as he did not turn and look at her.

 

Deliberately defying the feeling, he turned.

 

“All right back there?”

 

“Yes,” she said, and paused. “I’m afraid this may cause you some inconvenience, this favor you are doing me. My _friends_ will want to assure themselves that you can be trusted to forget anything you might see.”

 

“It’s awfully nice of you to trust us,” Sam said.

 

“Oh, not so nice,” Foyle said mildly. “Mrs Chenard already knows that we know who she is, and where she’s going, and how. Because she was listening at the door when we were talking. Weren’t you?”

 

Jen’s expression didn’t change. “How did you …? ”

 

“You made sure to be on the other side of the room by the time I came out,” Foyle said. “But you hadn’t time to put your shoes back on.”

 

“Ah,” she said. “Careless of me.”

 

“Yes,” Foyle said seriously. “Try not to be _careless_ in future, would you? I’d take it as a … personal favor.”  

 

“And I owe you one or two of those,” she said.

 

“I rather plan to put those to someone else’s account,” Foyle said. “So why don’t you owe _me_ one and make sure you come back to collect?”

 

“I’ll bring you a doll,” Jen suggested. Foyle smiled.

 

“I don’t understand,” Sam said.

 

Jen leaned forward, elbows on the back of the front seat. “Five and twenty ponies, trotting through the dark.”

 

Ahead of them, the road ran true and straight and silver as the car ate up the miles.

 

“Brandy for the Parson, ‘baccy for the clerk,” Foyle supplied.

 

“Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie,” Jen went on. “Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by.”

 

“Oh!” Sam said. “It’s that poem, isn’t it? By Kipper.”

 

“Dear God,” Foyle said involuntarily.

 

Jen’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “If you see the stable-door setting open wide, if you see a tired horse lying down inside, if your mother mends a coat cut about and tore, if the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more.”

“And,” Foyle said, “if you meet … King George's men, dressed in blue and red, you be … _careful_ what you _say_ , and mindful what is _said_.”

 

Jen took it up again. “If they call you ‘pretty maid,’ and chuck you 'neath the chin, don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been. And if you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance, you will get a dainty doll, all the way from France. With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood - a present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good.”

 

Ahead of them, the long X of a roadblock crossed the road. Sam began to slow. “I think we might be here.”

 

Foyle looked at Jen Chenard and saw her gaze fixed on the roadblock ahead, face very still. “Five and twenty ponies trotting through the dark.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Brandy for the Parson, tobacco for the clerk.” The car came to a gentle stop and the guards moved towards them, rifles in hands. “Laces for a lady -”

 

Foyle touched her hand where it rested on the seat back, and when she looked at him, touched his breast pocket. “Letters for a spy.”

 

She smiled, and moved her other hand to brush Sam’s shoulder. “Watch the wall, my darlings, while this gentleman goes by.”

 

And then, in one smooth movement, she opened the car door and was gone.

 

Foyle was not _entirely_ surprised when Hilda Pierce took her place.

 

“Mr Foyle,” she said dryly. “Miss Stewart. It seems I am in your debt, again.”

 

“And I have … every _intention_ of collecting,” Foyle said. “For starters, neither I nor Miss Stewart are going to find ourselves detained and asked questions meant to ascertain our … _loyalty_ or trustworthiness.”

 

“Noted,” Miss Pierce said. “And?”

 

“I’ll let you know,” Foyle said.

 

“I say,” Sam said, “you’re rather in _my_ debt too, aren’t you?”

 

“Sam …” Foyle said warningly.

 

She plowed ahead. “I mean, Mrs Chenard couldn’t have gotten here _at all_ if not for me, could she?”

 

“True,” Miss Pierce said, and there might have been amusement in her voice. “What would you like, Miss Stewart? Apart from being allowed to leave again, knowing what you know, having seen what you have seen.”

 

“Can we see her off?” Sam asked.

 

“See her off?” Miss Pierce said. “I don’t know where you think she’s going, Miss Stewart, or why it would be appropriate for you to wave her goodbye.”

 

“I don’t know where she’s going,” Sam said, determined. “Not for sure. But I’m not blind, Miss Pierce, and I can see this is an airfield and I can see it’s a full moon and I know _we’re_ all on alert for _German_ spies being dropped from planes. And I think it’s awfully brave and _someone_ ought to - well, bear witness sort of thing.”

 

“Not a posting to the WRENs?” Miss Pierce asked. “Or the War Office?”

 

“Could you do that?” Sam asked.

 

“It might be possible.”

 

Foyle could see Sam biting her lip, and then she shook her head. “Well, that would be awfully kind of you, of course, but I’m quite happy as I am, I think. And I would like to see Mrs Chenard off.”

 

There was a long silence, and Sam fidgeted a little under Miss Pierce’s steady regard, but didn’t look away.

 

“Very well,” the spy-mistress said finally. She stretched one hand out of the car window and signaled, and the soldiers guarding the road-block moved to remove it. “Straight ahead, then left. You’ll see where.”

 

“Gosh, thanks!” Sam said, and sent the car forward.

 

They bumped along past several rows of anonymous huts and then, as Sam made the left turn, Foyle saw a runway ahead, a single small plane sitting ready. Andrew had talked to him enough about planes that he could see it was neither a spitfire nor a bomber, small and solid and with a single engine.

 

“Stop here,” Miss Pierce said, and Sam did.

 

They got out. Sam stood by the driver’s side door, not quite but almost at attention. Miss Pierce joined Foyle, and stood leaning on her cane. She said quietly: “Your Miss Stewart is quite perspicacious.”

 

“And discreet,” Foyle said.

 

“Is she.” The note of cool speculation in Hilda Pierce’s voice made Foyle frown. The thought of Sam disappearing into somewhere like Hill House and then - _god, she’d do it, too, if they asked. Last ten minutes behind enemy lines._

 

“Not fluent in any other languages, no family connections in Europe, terrible liar,” he said.

 

“How is she with crosswords?” It might have been a non sequitur, if one didn’t know Hilda Pierce.

 

“Terrible,” Foyle said, with relief that it was the truth.

 

“Still,” Miss Pierce said. “One might think she was wasted where she is.”

 

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “You would have been … _rather_ stuck this week if she hadn’t been where she is,” he pointed out. “And I’d be rather stuck without her. Must keep your tame policeman happy.”

 

“Hardly tame,” Hilda Pierce said with the trace of a smile.

 

“Hardly a policeman, these days,” Foyle said, thinking of Hill House. “I’m not sure there’s room for both the rule of law and … _whatever_ rule it is you follow, in the same country.”

 

“You seem to be have done well enough this week.”

 

“You were … _very_ sure Mrs Chenard wasn’t a murderer,” Foyle said. “Care to let me in on why?”

 

“It will have been a waste of training if she _isn’t_ a murderer,” Miss Pierce said. “But not this _particular_ one. She quite simply didn’t have the opportunity.”

 

“And you’re very sure of that?”

 

Miss Pierce turned to look at him, eyes dark with secrets. “Utterly. And that will have to satisfy you, Mr Foyle.”

 

“Do you ever think about what’s going to happen when this is over?” Foyle asked. “All these people, and you’re not very particular about their backgrounds _are_ you, trained the way you train them, taught the things you teach them, let loose on the countryside in peacetime?”

 

“That rather depends on who wins.” She turned her attention back to the runway. “You might worry about it being your job to deal with those consequences after the war. It’s _my_ job to make sure you have the opportunity for it to _be_ your job. Given the alternatives, I would hope that it is, if I were you.” She lifted her head a little. “There they are. At last. If I’d been planning to spend time standing around here I would have worn a warmer coat.”

 

“You’re quite welcome to wait in the car,” Foyle said with withering politeness as four figures, one smaller than the other three, emerged from one of the huts and started across the runway to the waiting plane.

 

Miss Pierce’s lips quirked, and she turned to the car. For a moment Foyle thought she was in fact going to get in, but instead she stretched her cane through the open window and tapped the horn.

 

At the sound, the figures turned toward them. On the other side of the car, Sam straightened to full attention, and raised her hand to her forehead in a salute. Miss Pierce simply lowered her cane to the ground and stood, both hands clasped on its head, back very straight.

 

Jen Chenard had changed into slacks and a sweater, no doubt against the chill which would be much worse at altitude. A dark scarf covered her hair. Two of the men with her wore RAF uniforms, and the third was in civilian clothes.

 

Neither Sam’s military salute, nor Miss Pierce’s stillness, seemed appropriate. Instead, Foyle raised his hand to his hat, and lifted it slightly.

 

All three of the men sketched quick salutes in return, and turned back to the plane’s open hatch. Jen Chenard raised a hand as well, as if to wave, and then, even at that distance, Foyle could see the spark of merriment on her face.

 

Instead of waving, she blew all three of them a kiss, as bright and gay as any woman farewelling friends with a holiday before her.

 

The plane’s dark hatch swallowed her.

 

Sam held her salute as the plane’s engine started, as it trundled along the runway and lifted into the moonlit night, until it was out of sight. Then she turned and addressed Miss Pierce across the roof of the car. “Thank you, Miss Pierce,” she said formally. “Even if we can’t ever talk about it to anyone ever. _We’ll_ know. And she’ll know we know. And that sort of thing does matter, I think, even in wartime. Maybe especially in wartime. You might -”

 

“Please, Miss Stewart,” Miss Pierce interrupted, raising her hand in what might have been surrender. “You’ve made your point.” She turned, and lowering her voice, said dryly to Foyle, “You have my sympathy.”

 

“Thank you,” Foyle said. He looked across the car at Sam, pale and resolute and very, very young, willing to defy the secret powers of the wartime state because it was _right_. “But d’you know, Miss Pierce … I think it might be misplaced.”

 

He got back in the car and Sam joined him. “Back to Ashford, sir?”

 

“Yes,” Foyle said, careful not to let her see him smile. “Back to Ashford, Sam.” He paused. “Perhaps … a little more _slowly_ this time.”

 

“Right you are, sir!” Sam said. She turned the wheel and touched the accelerator, heading for the open road and the English countryside, leaving the airfield, and Miss Pierce, and the secrets both contained, behind.

 < _fin >_

 *******************************

 

 

A/N: The chapter titles are from Rudyard Kipling’s “Smuggler’s Song” (although not, alas, as they occur in the poem) as are Foyle’s quotes.

 

It is true that many agents and much materiel was dropped into occupied France via parachute, but there was also a squadron of Lysander planes which landed, both disembarking passengers and equipment and picking up people who needed to get out, although these missions didn’t fly out of Tempsford until somewhat later than this story’s date and it’s very unlikely that any agent sent into enemy territory and in danger of capture and interrogation would have known the location of the airfield, as Jen does in this story.

More than one hundred agents arrived in occupied Europe in a Lysander. Those missions were flown when the moon was full to enable them to land in isolated fields without lights. 39 of the SOE’s ‘Section F’ agents sent to France were female - out of a total of 55 female agents overall. 13 were killed.

**Author's Note:**

> The series title is from Rudyard Kipling's "Spies March" - "There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally"
> 
> The chapter titles are from Rudyard Kipling’s “Smuggler’s Song” (although not, alas, as they occur in the poem) as are Foyle’s quotes. 
> 
> It is true that many agents and much materiel was dropped into occupied France via parachute, but there was also a squadron of Lysander planes which landed, both disembarking passengers and equipment and picking up people who needed to get out, although these missions didn’t fly out of Tempsford until somewhat later than this story’s date and it’s very unlikely that any agent sent into enemy territory and in danger of capture and interrogation would have known the location of the airfield, as Jen does in this story.  
> More than one hundred agents arrived in occupied Europe in a Lysander. Those missions were flown when the moon was full to enable them to land in isolated fields without lights. 39 of the SOE’s ‘Section F’ agents sent to France were female - out of a total of 55 female agents overall. 13 were killed.


End file.
